Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!